JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

BORN: CAMBRIDGE, MASS., FEB. 22, 1819. THIS poet, essayist and critic graduated at Harvard, and for more than twenty years was professor of belles-lettres in that college. In 1877 he was appointed minister of Spain, and

LONGING.

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Of all the myriad moods of mind
That through the soul come thronging,
What one was e'er so dear, so kind,

So beautiful, as Longing?
The thing we long for, that we are
For one transcendent moment,
Before the present, poor and bare,
Can make its sneering comment.

Still through our paltry stir and strife
Glow down the wished ideal,
And Longing molds in clay what Life
Carves in the marble real.

To let the new life in, we know,
Desire must ope the portal;

Perhaps the Longing to be so
Helps make the soul immortal.

When I was a beggarly boy,
And lived in a cellar damp,
I had not a friend nor a toy,

But I had Aladdin's lamp;
When I could not sleep for cold,
I had fire enough in my brain,
And builded, with roofs of gold,

My beautiful castles in Spain!

Since then I have toiled day and night,

I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright, For the one that is mine no more; Take, Fortune, whatever you choose. You gave, and may snatch again; I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose, For I own no more castles in Spain!

EXTRACTS.

Earth's noblest thing, a woman perfected.

Be noble! and the nobleness that lies In other men, sleeping, but never dead, Will rise in majesty to meet thine own.

New occasions teach new duties; time makes ancient good uncouth;

They must upward still and onward who would keep abreast of truth.

But better far it is to speak

One simple word which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men.

The busy world shoves angrily aside
The man who stands with arms akimbo set
Until occasion tell him what to do,

And he who waits to have his task marked out
Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled.

No man is born into the world whose work
Is not born with him; there is always work
And tools to work withal, for those who will,
And blessed are the horny hands of toil.

Get but the truth once uttered, and 'tis like
A star new-born that drops into its place,
And which, once circling in its placid round
Not all the tumult of the earth can shake.

And I honor the man who is willing to sink Half his present repute for the freedom to think,

And when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak,

Will risk t'other half for the freedom to speak, Caring naught for what vengeance the mob has in store,

Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or lower.

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Life is a leaf of paper white
Whereon each one of us may write

His word or two, and then comes night;
Greatly begin! Though thou hast time
But for a line, be that sublime!
Not failure, but low aim, is crime.

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. NOTE. The following extract is the prelude to Part First of The Vision of Sir Launfal, one of the best of Lowell's efforts as a poet. The poem appeared in 1848, and it has done much to establish the reputation of its author as one of the most scholarly of American poets. Over his keys the musing organist,

Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay.

Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme,

First guessed by faint auroral flushed sent
Along the wavering vista of his dream.

Not only around our infancy
Doth heaven with all its splendors lie.
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
We Sinais climb, and know it not.
Over our manhood bend the skies;
Against our fallen and traitor lives
The great winds utter prophecies;

With our faint hearts the mountain strives;
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood
Waits with its benedicite;

And to our age's drowsy blood

Still shouts the inspiring sea.

Earth gets its price for what earth gives us: The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives

us,

We bargain for the graves we lie in; At the devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross cost its ounce of gold: For a cap and bells our lives we pay; Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking; "Tis heaven alone that is given away, "Tis only God may be had for the asking. No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer, And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look or whether we listen, We hear life murmur or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice; And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace. The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,

In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? Now is the high tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it;

No matter how barren the past may have been, ¦ 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are

green.

We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell, We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing

That skies are clear and grass is growing.

The breeze comes whispering in our ear
That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,

That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing;
And hark! how clear bold Chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving; 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue'Tis the natural way of living.

Who knows whither the clouds have fled?

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth, And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burned-out craters healed with snow. What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remembered the keeping of his vow?

MRS. MARIA B. LINDESAY.

BORN IN ENGLAND, JAN. 1, 1862.

MRS. LINDESAY is known more as a Christian poet, and her poems have appeared in the

MRS. MARIA B. LINDESAY. Chicago Living Church and other prominent periodicals. She now resides with her husband in Asheville, N. C.

THE SCULPTOR'S TEST. Within his studio, one bright day, A massive block of marble lay. So wondrous pure, so spotless white It seemed to fill the room with light, And woo his genius to dare And try to form a Being there. Spurr'd by the one inspiring thought, From day to day he patient wrought, From week to week, from year to year Till fourteen of them pictured there, And he all doubt if 'twas his best, And trembling much, applied the test. He called a child, a little child All innocent and undefiled, And pointing to the figure there, In its pure beauty grand and fair, He bade her mark it long and well, And who she thought it was to tell. He watched her with a beating heart, Nor could he check a fearsome start, When the bright eyes had wandered o'er His work, and viewed it yet once more,

She spoke, as though of holy things,
""Tis some good angel, - without wings."
He turned him to his work again
With more of pleasure than of pain,
And labored on, with hopes and fears,
For seven more long weary years;
And feeling he had done his best,
He once again applied the test.
The child he called unto him now,

Looked on it once with thoughtful brow,
And worshiping with reverent face
The beauty of its wondrous grace,
Bent all abashed, her infant head,
And, It is Jesus Christ," she said.

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CHRIST'S HUMANITY.
O! Babe upon thy mother's breast,
In our weak garb of suffering drest,
So lowly, yet so wondrous nigh
That angels might not pass thee by,
And wise men came from distant lands,
With kingly offerings in their hands;
What dreams prophetic, strange and old
Thy heritage and work foretold!

O! Child within the temple's court,
Where priest and prophet wisdom sought,
And thy young lips first ope' to tell,
The message that they knew so well;
O! Man upon the upward way
Beneath the heat and toil of day,
With weary feet and tender frame,
Yet ever, always, just the same:
Mighty to heal, lowly and mild,
Yet grand in justice, undefiled,
And blending with a god-like love
Thy life work with Thy place above!
O! Savior at the awful close,
Forsook by friends, beset by foes-
Before the vengeful bar arraign'd

With brow and garments crimson-stained,
Amidst the mob, whose only cry,
In thirsty voice was, Crucify!'

LIFE.

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How beautiful is Life! When the first streak Touches the sunrise hills, [of dawning

And all the glint and glow of early morning
The wide east fills.

How beautiful is life! At noontide's hour
When, glowing like the sun,
Man's widening pathway lit with wondrous
Is mapped and run.
[power,

How beautiful is life! When eventide

Steals softly on,

And sunset's gates are flining open wide
Till day is done.

How beautiful is life! When mystic night
Disrobes her starry breast,

Gleaming with other world's far distant light, And man must rest.

AMARALA MARTIN.

BORN: NEW CALEDONIA, ILL., MAY 2, 1837. MRS. MARTIN has had an active pen in various reforms, including the suffrage question among many others. Her husband died in 1887, leaving her in good circumstances Her writings have appeared in the leading period

My loved one and I, but a few years ago, Built a home-nest with rivers and blossoms aglow,

And time, like a sunbeam, came in through our door,

And left in his blessings, our sweet nestlings, four,

But, when we were happy as happy could be, Death, reaching his hand for our darlings, stole three,

The fourth spread her wings and flew off with her mate,

And the home-nest's deserted and desolate.
O, poor, parent-birdies! you've no song to

sing,

Since your brood rest not 'neath the soft mother-wing;

And you daily wait for their chirping and song As the voiceless summer-time passes along, So wait we for footsteps we never more hear, Since none of our tender young fledgelings

are near

Too close to the earth have our best treasures lain,

Let us build higher up if we build again!

AMARALA MARTIN.

icals of America. She has written two books, which have received quite a wide circulation. Mrs. Martin's best poems are yet unpublished; one of which is a story of some length. In person she is a little below medium height, with brown hair and eyes, and now lives with her family in Cairo, Ill.

THE DESERTED NEST.

In the dewy woodbine all fragrant with sweet, Two little wrens made a nest, dainty and neat;

And songs of delight did they joyfully sing When four birdies peeped from the motherwren's wing.

But, when they were happy as happy could be, A child reached their birdlings and took of them, three,

The fourth made a wee, pretty home of her

own,

And the nest in the vine swings empty and lone.

MYRTLE MOORE.

O, darling, innocent baby-girl!

Your rose-flushen cheeks and your brow of

pearl,

And your lips with musical words apart
Make a captive of my womanly heart.
"Though I was a stranger you beckoned me,
And showered your kisses most trustingly:
And I almost thought your earnest eyes,
Read the sorrowful thoughts I'd fain disguise.
You so reminded me, Myrtle Moore,
Of my own fair darling whose gone before,"
That I feared to see you shrink and start,
From the sudden pain of my mother-heart.

My little one's prattlings were like your own,
And my soul lists yet for their loving tone;
"Though on the white slab of a household joy,
Is carved - Mamma's baby and papa's boy."
The rose-bud kisses you gave to me,

I will keep all fresh in my memory;
But hide yourself from my longing eyes,
Lest, hopeless, I covet so sweet a prize.
Oh! cling to your parents, Myrtle Moore,
Nor cast one glance towards Heaven's door;
Lest the angels know you are one of them,
And add to their jewels another gem.

May your heart be ever as pure as now,
And time ne'er shadow your cloudless brow;
May Heaven upon you its blessings pour,
Beautiful, dove-eyed Myrtle Moore!

MILLIE E. NOECKER.

BORN: KENDALLVILLE, IND., SEPT. 14, 1862. MISS NOECKER has written for some of the leading periodicals for the past ten years; among which might be mentioned the Methodist Advocate, Fort Wayne News and the

FORGIVE.

We hear them saying, here and there,
I can ne'er forgive a wrong!
Think well each one, before you speak,
Does all blame on one belong!
You think a sin you can't forgive!
Who is free from every sin?

The day will come, when you think not,
Then you'll say, "what might have been."
And when beside your bed you kneel,

Asking Jesus to forgive,
Do you expect his tender love,
When a wrong you'd not forgive?
Loving hearts oft drift asunder,
By these words, I'll not forgive,"
When by loving words and reason,
You in sweetest joy might live.
Soon beside the unforgiven
You will stand in deepest grief,

You will try to ease your conscience,
And to lull your Soul to sleep.
But too late," will be your answer,
You refused their last request,
But to make amends to conscience,

You will then forgive in death.
What is love, when life is ended?
What's forgiveness in death!
Arms that clasped thee once are folded,
Lips of smiles for e'er bereft!

FORGOTTEN.

Oh! how soon we are forgotten,

In this busy world of ours,

If our paths were only strewn,

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Not with thorns, but sweetest flowers.

All our life long, we'd be happy,

We would never more be sad,

Scores of friends would then surround us,
Friends by thousands we would have.
But when thorns thus sorely wound us;
And the pains thus pierce our hearts,
Quickly those proclaiming friendship,
Hasten from us to depart.

Oft we see the truest friendship,
Fade like dewdrops from our view,
For alas! this world soon wearies
Of the old friends, and wants new.
But how sweet in deepest sorrow,

Is a tried, true, loyal friend;

Tho' the world would scorn, condemn us, Faithful they'd be to the end.

A LEAP IN THE DARK.

A leap in the dark, oh! what's beyond, The matrimonial brink?

Will the paths to tread be rocks of love!
Or sands in which to sink?

Will there be a sun of Love to shine,
Along life's weary way!

Or the Sun of Love, forever set,
On our wedding day?

Ah! who can see o'er the brink of time
And tell us, what is there?

It may be joy, or it may be pain,

Be comfort or despair!

If a Bride was sure her Lover would
Crown her queen of his heart,
She'd gladly place her hand in his, and
Take the leap in the dark.

Tho' you try, you can't forget me,
Strive as hard as e'er you might,

For remember after twilight

Comes the dark'ning of the night; Yes, a night so dark and dreary, E'en the stars cannot shine through; Then with mingled joy and sorrow,

You'll think of her who loved you true.